Spaceman
by koalakoala
Summary: AU. He knots her shoelaces and hopes she wins if he dies. Gale/Madge. Twoshot. For Project PULL, and winner of Starvation's oneshot challenge, celebration.
1. deep blue sea

_Spaceman_

Or, _the devil and the deep blue sea_

* * *

><p>1:04 in the afternoon. The Capitol train is gone, and everyone minus two celebrates. Even if they can't afford it. They line up in mass numbers outside the sweetshop and bakery and butcher's—everyone is craving sugar and wonderbread and maybe a third of a steak—and you're lucky if no one tries to clandestinely or not clandestinely take what few coins you have.<p>

This year, only the sweetshop and butcher's have lines. The bakery has a closed sign and no one blames them for it.

He can hear the thousands of TVs playing in every house, cruel advertisements to all-you-can-eat diners (complete with pictures, of course) and a repeating list of twenty-four names.

His best friend is one of them.

Gale waits in the butcher's line for four hours. The result is one thin strip of steak, the color of dull rubies, but at least he got a fair price.

His mother grills it on their stove, Katniss' mother offers herbs, Prim gives everyone goat cheese, and it's the best meal they've had in weeks, but it's the complete opposite of celebrating.

They eat in silence.

Every television in District 12 is turned off by now, but scratchy Capitol music from vintage radios replaces them. It's easy to believe that somewhere, where the songs aren't filled with static—and even where they are—people are dancing.

He can't imagine joining them.

* * *

><p>1:04 in the afternoon. Madge waits in the sweetshop line because they've already got plenty of meat in the refrigerator at home.<p>

Everyone is still in their reaping clothes, but she feels out of place in the dozens of dark-haired girls wearing faded homemade dresses that weren't stitched by machines in Eight.

She buys a tin of jellybeans for her father and a carton of vanilla ice cream that will definitely melt before she gets home. Maybe her mother won't go back to bed and instead she'll make shortcake like she used to, with the last of Katniss' strawberries. They they'll have fresh cake and cold ice cream and feel sick to their stomachs but invincible.

What really happens: a boy pushes her hard and grabs her bag, and the jellybeans spill in all directions. He runs off with the sweating ice cream, and everyone averts their gaze.

There's a tear in her dress, her knee is skinned, and the cotton of her dress is uncomfortably damp from waiting outside all day.

Madge scoops the candy back into the tin, and no one leaves their place in line to help her.

When she returns home, she finds her mother's already sleeping and can't be disturbed, which means no cake and no piano—but she doesn't really care for playing the national anthem anyway.

Her father grins as she gives him the jellybeans, but complains the rest of the evening about the sweetshop's incompetence because they taste like coal.

* * *

><p>Gale glues his eyes to the television. He shouldn't be hopeful but he is anyway.<p>

She's pretty when she's burning. But she smiles charmingly and catches kisses and he doesn't know her at all.

Peeta Mellark tells the country he's in love with her. _Winning…won't help my case. Because she came here with me._ Her face is red as the strawberries he gives the mayor's daughter, and Gale can almost believe she loves him back.

A little girl's fingers find his. "She promised me she'd come home, Gale. Peeta's going to help her, you'll see."

"Prim." Gale sighs, wonders how to say it. He isn't very good with comforting words. "Just…don't count on that, okay?"

The interview highlights are replayed the next morning as they wait for the main event, but there's really only one. He sits in his desk at school and ignores anyone who tries to start a conversation.

The tributes rise. Everyone starts counting to sixty. The camera flashes to Katniss, who's clearly considering at a bow and a sheath of silver arrows. Right at the Cornucopia.

"Catnip," he says under his breath. "Don't." _If she knows anything about the Hunger Games, it's to not fight in the bloodbath—_

The camera skips to Mellark, who's staring at her and vehemently shaking his head. For once, Gale agrees with him. But Katniss never takes her eyes off the Cornucopia, and she tenses to run.

They get a few seconds of aerial footage, showing endless trees, a lake, a stretch of prairie, and the glossy Cornucopia in the early sun. Standard. He wills her, _forest_.

Someone lets out a nervous cough. He swallows. _Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty._ The gong sounds.

"Ladies and gentlemen…let the Seventy-Third Hunger Games begin!" Claudius Templesmith's voice seems far away, despite the classroom walls' built-in speakers.

She runs. But not in the direction of the trees. The camera angle changes, to the Careers quickly picking their choice of weapons. The bow is in her hands faster than anyone expected, and she genuinely smiles for a second—

Before a knife jerks through her stomach. She yanks it out weakly as she falls, and all he can think of is the stupid red ribbon that the mayor's daughter wore to the reaping.

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire," sneers the girl from Two, taking her knife back. Now tributes are running, dying, killing, and it's all completely meaningless to him.

When the camera switches back, Mellark's reached her, and he's kneeling beside the curled up girl on the ground. "_Katniss—"_

The audience is expecting something romantic, a declaration of love. All she says is, "Take care of Prim." And it hits Gale that she isn't talking to Peeta Mellark, she's talking to _him_. "I'm sorry," she says.

He takes her hand, strokes her hair. "It's okay, it's okay."

"I love you." That's for Prim (or him?) and Mellark must know that, but he kisses her forehead anyway and says, "Me too."

Boots crunch on dirt. A Career blocks out the sun, and Katniss closes her eyes. Peeta, polite as ever, says, _please._

Gale walks out before his head hits the ground.

* * *

><p>He bruises his knuckles over and over. <em>Take care of Prim. Take care of Prim. Take care of Prim.<em>

Everyone at the Hob pays whatever price he suggests, pity in their eyes.

Madge opens the back door with surprise in her eyes—the color reminds him of blueberry skin, dusty blue—like she can't believe he's there bringing her strawberries, like he hasn't done this every week for at least two years.

Her gaze falls on his bruised hand.

"What, did you think I was going to wallow in grief and forget your precious strawberries?" he says coolly, conscious of the missing girl at his side who wouldn't let him be bitter towards the mayor's daughter. "Some of us have families to feed."

She colors and scowls at once, which ruins the effect of both.

Gale holds out his hand silently. She gives him money, shuts the door. He leaves the extra coins unceremoniously on her doorstep. They'll go through the exact same exchange every Sunday for the next eleven months.

He buys a chocolate cake from the crying baker who insists that he can have it for free.

Mrs. Everdeen hugs him when he knocks on their door. His whole family is already here, and the TV is turned on. Prim looks so much smaller than he remembers.

Gale slams the white box on their kitchen table. Everyone stares at him blankly.

"We're having a celebration," he announces. "You're going to eat this goddamn cake, and you're going to _enjoy_ eating it."

_For her._

And Prim, her eyelashes wet, picks up a fork.

* * *

><p>"Ladies first!"<p>

She wears last year's reaping dress, even though her father tells her she can have a new one. Her pin is missing, but she thinks it suited Katniss better than it could ever suit her.

It's hot and sunny and the thick curls her mother helped with are steadily deflating.

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie announces, bright as ever, and Madge is suddenly very sure that the reaping is not by chance or luck or how many slips you have. "Oh!" Effie squeaks. "Do we have any volunteers?"

Prim blinks like she's trying not to cry. And that's why Madge walks up to the stage and shakes hands with her own father.

The crowd mutters, no doubt because she ruined all of their bets.

"Now we need our male tribute," Effie says, reaching for a name. She unfolds the paper. "Gale Hawthorne!" _As if this day could get any worse._

"Pretty dress," Gale says, just to be irritating, as her hand disappears in his.

It works.

* * *

><p>"Shut up and listen," Haymitch orders. It's a lot more forceful than either of them expected, considering the amount of wineglasses he's been through. "I am giving you a plan. You're going to win the Hunger Games, so feel free to thank me when you do."<p>

He laughs harshly, drinks more wine.

"So what's the plan?" Gale says impatiently.

"We're going to give the audience what they want," he answers, almost with satisfaction. "Star-crossed lovers, version two point oh. The Capitol will eat it up." Haymitch looks at them like he's daring them to argue.

"No way," Madge says. She refuses to look at him, and he's fine with that.

"No way," he echoes her.

Haymitch looks unimpressed. "And why not? I've got a source who tells me the Gamemakers were planning a rule change last year. Two tributes could win, as long as they were from the same District. If only that idiot girl hadn't—"

"Katniss was my best friend," she says.

"Katniss was _my_ best friend," he corrects stiffly, and it's petty but he's glad to see blood rush to her cheeks.

"How touching," Haymitch replies, but Gale is pretty sure he didn't imagine the pain that flashed for a split second across his face. "But the point is that they could still change the rules. If they had a reason to." He waits, but neither of them has anything to say.

"Fine. See if I care when you get no sponsors." He gestures for more liquor and they look at him with matching disgust.

* * *

><p>"Madge," he says, catching up to her easily in the corridor.<p>

She eyes him warily. "What?"

"I think we should follow Haymitch's plan," he forces himself to say.

"You're insane," Madge says. "Totally insane. There's no way I'd pretend to be in love with you in front of the whole country." At least she didn't say _I'd rather die, _which would have been melodramatic but appropriately ironic.

He sighs. "Look. Not all of us are social outcasts, okay? I've got friends I want to see again. Family."

"I want to go home too," she says defensively. "But Haymitch's idiotic plan isn't the only way to win the Hunger Games. Seventy-three other people—"

Gale snorts. "Careers. Or luck. You can't seriously think that you could—"

"Insulting me isn't going to help," she says coolly. Which is true, he'll give her that at least.

They look at each other. "Sorry," he grunts finally.

And his voice softens. "I've got a little sister—Posy. She's only four. And she really loved these pink-frosted cupcakes in the window of the baker's. So a day before her birthday, I lied and said I didn't catch anything in my snares. But I'd just saved the money. And the next day, you should've seen her eyes light up when I brought home three pink cupcakes.

"I should've bought something important, like bread or new blankets. But I didn't. Posy might have been cold that night, or every night, but she slept next to me and she still smelled like icing."

Madge stares at him for a long time. He feels exposed and it's uncomfortable; the only person who he'd completely let his guard down for was Katniss, and it had taken months for that.

"Okay," is all she says.

He feels like he should thank her, but instead he enters his room and sprawls across the bed and tries not to throw up.

They tell Haymitch the next morning, at breakfast, and the man grunts with a hint of a smile and says he knew they would come around. And then he orders a uniformed Capitol attendant to bring him wine and they roll their eyes at each other.

* * *

><p>They don't need to be original.<p>

Cinna knows that, and he's already designed their opening ceremonies costumes to mirror last year's almost completely.

And the Capitol doesn't care. They cheer anyway, because this is their second chance, because they're still young and burning bright, and who cares if their names are different?

That night, the tributes of District 12 are mentioned the most out of all twenty-four, informs Effie.

She gets a five and he gets a nine. Her interview is passable at best. Gale's isn't very interesting until Caesar asks him if he's got a girlfriend.

He declares his love and no one cares about their scores or anyone else's.

Madge pinches her cheeks to make it look like she's blushing when the cameras turn to her, and apparently it's convincing. As Haymitch keeps repeating, the audience is nothing if not predictable.

The music drifts up, lights blaze, and she looks out her window and thinks it's ridiculous that the Capitol is celebrating something that doesn't even exist.

They watch the reruns later and laugh, and Haymitch reluctantly pronounces them to be perfect.

* * *

><p>The sun glares, the wind is bitter cold.<p>

They're surrounded by snow-covered peaks in a loose rectangle, with trees covering the base of the mountains.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!"

This is all too familiar, except now he's the one on the television. He runs for the forest and doesn't look back, like she should've done. Then he hears light footsteps behind him, and he braces himself. But it's only who he expected, and he lets out a sigh.

"Sure you want to leave me behind?" Madge asks casually. She offers a jug of water and dried cranberries. And most importantly, a knife.

Gale supposes he should say something like, _I'd never leave you behind. _Instead, he drags her out of the way of an arrow, grabs the knife, and aims it toward the source. It hits its mark, and he doesn't feel anything but satisfaction.

"Now we don't have a weapon," she says.

He just barely resists rolling his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Remember when you used to bring me strawberries?" she begins. It's dusk and they've made camp in the dense part of the forest.<p>

Seven killed in the bloodbath. Seven cannons. Seventeen left.

"Every Sunday," he offers.

"I used to look forward to that," Madge says. "I'd open the back door and you would _smile_ and compliment my clothes and hand me the freshest strawberries. I'd invite you inside, but you would always refuse."

She's better than he is at this. "I never thought you were serious," Gale invents.

"But you hoped?"

He kisses her. It's far from the best kiss he's ever had but he pretends it is, and the sickly-sweet smile she gives him is so fake he almost laughs and ruins everything.

A silver parachute falls out of the sky. A carton of strawberries and a container of cream. "Haymitch must be feeling sentimental," he says.

"Are you kidding?" Madge says lightly. "I'll bet Effie forced him."

She calls _thanks_ to the sky, and he would have told her to be quiet if they weren't supposed to be in love. But they eat nothing but strawberries for dinner, and it feels more like a celebration than any of his meals in the Capitol.

They make a show of curling up together under the indigo ceiling that reminds him of her eyes, and it might be fake, but it's cold out and he's glad of her next to him.

* * *

><p><em>AN:_ Part deux will be posted next Friday.


	2. it's all in your mind

_A/N: _I meant to have this up two days ago, but I was having an absolutely awful day on Friday and this was definitely a lot harder to write than the first part, especially the ending. Sorry about that, and I hope you enjoy nevertheless.

* * *

><p><em>Spaceman<em>

Or, _it's all in your mind_

* * *

><p>She wakes up with Gale Hawthorne's arm loose around her waist. Her mouth tastes like morning and Madge is glad he seems to be as casually unconcerned as she is in keeping up their charade for the moment.<p>

"Did you sleep okay?" It seems like the safest question to ask.

"Perfectly," he replies, with a hint of a grin.

They each eat a tiny amount of cranberries and still-cold water for breakfast, and their obligatory kiss after is bittersweet.

She wishes Haymitch would send them toothpaste or something. But apparently, when you're in love, you're not supposed to care. For the first time, Madge wonders, a little guiltily, what Katniss would think about this arrangement.

Everyone knows she would've signed her name next to his in the Justice Building and celebrated with a clean (but not new) dress and bread made from tesserae grain.

But she's dead, and there's no use wondering.

The forest is startlingly sunny and there haven't been any cannons since last night, and it's making them both paranoid. But Madge watches, fascinated, as he sets up a few supposedly simple snares.

Because, as he says, they can't survive on fruit.

She definitely isn't going to tell him she's still hungry, but she has a feeling he already knows.

* * *

><p>She's restless, made painfully obvious by the fact that she keeps deciding the bows at the ends of her shoelaces aren't perfect enough. His are double knotted and have been since yesterday, simple and useful.<p>

He kind of wants the Careers to find them. At least then there would be something to do besides listen to the sound of her hunger and make snares.

This doesn't really feel like the Hunger Games, and for some reason he isn't glad about it.

Instead, a little girl peeks out from behind a trembling aspen, darkness pooling on the front of her shirt, the sound of cicadas singing feels more sinister than it should, and the cannons start firing, one after another.

They're both on their feet in half a second, and Gale inwardly curses their lack of weapons.

"Rue," the girl whispers, fingers clutching at her stomach. Blood trickles from her lips. "District Eleven." And he's suddenly certain that even if he had a variety of knives to choose from, he couldn't have killed this girl.

They run. Gale scoops her into his arms, and she's so slight it almost feels like carrying Posy, except he's running too fast and she isn't squealing.

So it really isn't very similar at all.

He'd admit that he nearly forgets about the girl who he's supposedly in love with, but he has a feeling she already knows. She struggles to keep up and he counts cannons (six) and tries not to feel guilty that he isn't slowing down for her.

Miles later, sweat makes her blond hair stick to her head, and he lets her drink the whole bottle.

Gale places the girl in his arms gently on the ground, and it takes a minute before they realize she's dead. They must have not heard the cannon while running from the Gamemakers' latest creation, whatever it was.

He isn't looking forward to finding out.

"Madge," he says, swallowing. "We have to move away from the body." _The body_ isn't Posy or Prim and he doesn't know why it still hurts or why he cares.

He doesn't tell her the wound is too big to be the product of mutts. It's finally started to feel like the Hunger Games, and he finds he isn't glad.

She ignores him, digging around in her pack before she produces a handful of stems from last night's strawberries.

(Hers only; he ate his.)

Madge carefully places them all over the dead girl, and they look like miniature ferns or curling green stars or streamers for a celebration and for some reason he stares at her and can't get any words out of his throat.

* * *

><p>They wait and wait and wait for the announcement. No trumpets sound. <em>Haymitch was wrong. <em>They're both thinking it, but with all the cameras recording, they can't dare to say anything honest.

A four-note melody echoes off the mountain, hopeful. But no one echoes it back.

She's surprised when Gale asks, "Are you cold?"

Madge lies and tells him she isn't, because she's not about to let him hold her when they might not have a reason to anymore. _Haymitch was wrong._ And where exactly does that leave them?

"I guess it gets a lot colder in Twelve," Gale says. But it's more than that and she knows that he knows.

"Okay, I'm cold," she relents, too easily, and he smirks and loops an arm around her. Madge leans into him and sighs.

_Haymitch was wrong._ They might as well split up now. There's no use in being star-crossed lovers if they can't survive together, right?

She's a coward and can't say it to his face.

Which is why she waits until he's sound asleep before she kisses his cheek and leaves.

It's dark and she finds out fast that she's pretty useless without him. Madge walks until the sky lightens and her legs ache, but other than that she has no idea how far she's gone or in which direction she's heading—does the sun rise in the east or the west?

The mountains still look impossibly far away.

Then there's trumpets, louder than she imagined, and she shuts her eyes and can't think about anything but how stupid it was to leave him.

But maybe they would have never announced this if they were still together.

Claudius Templesmith is talking _(hello and congratulations, final ten!)_ about a certain change in the rules _(two tributes)_ and the minute he finishes is the minute the Gamemakers set the forest on fire.

In a big house just off the City Circle, the president smiles.

* * *

><p>He's awakened by the trumpets, of course, and his first thought is <em>finally<em>. Gale rubs his eyes and grins before realizing she isn't there.

_Of course._ He curses.

And then everything's burning and he's got a slightly better reason to curse as he runs, in the general direction of _away_.

Trees flare up like matches, heat sears his skin, and it's easy to believe the whole world is like this, turning into dust. He'd love to see the Capitol burn, buildings crumbling from the colors of icing to a uniform black.

It'd be beautiful, he thinks.

There would be huge celebrations in every district, ash drifting in the sky like a kind of confetti, free food for everyone who wanted it. No more Hunger Games.

That's what he thinks of while he runs, even though it's unlikely. Maybe he imagines it only because it feels impossible.

Gale reaches an edge of the forest at last, breath ragged from the uphill climb, wincing at the burns all over his arms. He can smell singed hair, and his mouth and skin and eyes feel drier than ever.

The bitter smell of ashes is suffocating.

A mountain looms up in front of him, but all he sees is white, and all he can think of is how incredibly cool the snow would feel against his face.

And then someone near him gives a hoarse cough, jarring him back to the present. For a half-second he thinks it's Madge, but instead it's only the male tribute from Seven, who's clearly dying from too much smoke in his lungs. Gale narrowly avoids his boots being covered in vomit. He takes the boy's two knives without difficulty, continues walking, and hopes he'll find a certain girl to give the second knife.

Not that she'll know how to use it.

The next tribute he sees is already dead. What's left of her hair is red and not blond and that's all that matters. She doesn't have any weapons.

Gale knows he's found her the minute he sees her shoelaces are untied. She's standing in the snow, hands shiny vulnerable pink, laces dragging like worms, but she isn't dead.

_She isn't dead._

His skin is figuratively burning and there are snowflakes in her hair, but she presses her mouth to his and he kisses her back and for the first time, it doesn't seem forced at all. His relief at finding her is real, at least.

They count nine faces in the sky that night. Eight left. At this rate, the 74th Hunger Games could end tomorrow. Trains must be making their way to half the Districts, to interview their families.

He wonders what his mother will say when they ask her about Madge.

The anthem plays, and two silver parachutes send them cream for their burns and a loaf of bread. District Eleven's, definitely, identifiable by the dark grain and the sunflower seeds covering the crust. He doesn't think he deserves it, but it's got to be the best thing he's ever tasted.

There might not be fires blazing in the Capitol, but this is enough of a celebration for now. Her right hand finds his left, and she says, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving."

"Just that you didn't tell me?"

She looks away. "But you already know I'm sorry I left, don't you?"

"It was pretty stupid," Gale says, which isn't really an answer. Her fingers are slippery with ointment and his are too, but neither of them say anything when he squeezes them too hard. He can't quite tell if they're still pretending.

When she falls asleep, later, her legs hang delicately off her makeshift hammock, boots dangling just above his face.

He knots her blackened shoelaces and hopes she wins if he dies.

* * *

><p>Madge opens her eyes and doesn't recognize the arena.<p>

All the snow has melted entirely, flooding what seems to be the whole forest. Gale is already awake, balanced on a branch below her, and eating a thick slice of Eleven's bread.

He hands her the rest, and she takes it gratefully, forcing herself to let her fingers loiter. He looks amused. "Do you know how to swim?"

"No," she says, self-consciously. "Do you?"

"No," Gale admits, to her relief, "but I would've thought you had a private lake in your backyard or something."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, I don't. You've been in my backyard before."

"I happened to be preoccupied with more important things than lakes while I was there, though," he says, not quite smiling, but at least he isn't scowling. He's gotten much better at lying recently.

She doesn't think her cheeks are pink enough from the cold to pass for a blush, but she's tired of caring.

"So what are we going to do?"

"Let the Careers do all the swimming." He grins, and she thinks he should definitely do it more often—it makes him just about fifty times more likable.

So they wait.

Gale teaches her how to use a knife, and a few hours and one cannon in, she can hit the tree next to theirs without much of a problem. But he doesn't mention how pitiful that is compared to the three Careers left who've trained their entire lives. They're the ones with lakes in their backyards.

A parachute brings them a single match, and they strike it and set fire to the same burnt tree she'd aimed at a hundred times.

Smoke drifts. The sky is free of yesterday's ash and it's a clear signal.

He hopes the water is cold.

They're back to waiting. He kisses her to distract her, and it's actually pretty effective at distracting himself, too.

Until the sun sinks slightly and they hear soft splashing. She tenses as he automatically lets go of her, and the fear plain in her eyes makes him want to look away. They still remind him of blueberries.

"I love you," she lies. If it's her last, she might as well make it a good one. For the Capitol.

"Love you too," he lies back, easily.

The four shivering Careers surrounding their tree might be comical. But they're still bigger than he is and still carrying at least three weapons each.

"Look who it is," sneers the first, the boy from Two.

What happens next isn't entirely unpredictable, and he curses himself silently for not thinking of it. Four Careers plus the two of them only equals six. There was eight last night, and one cannon this morning, which means that there's still one alive that isn't any of them.

And their smoke signal could have been seen from anywhere in the arena.

The District Eleven boy—Thresh, he remembers—emerges from the icy water with a scowl and a knife, and the exhausted Careers aren't much of a match for him. The District Two girl is dead in seconds and her partner shows his teeth in a twisted smile as the cannon confirms it.

"Looking to get revenge for killing your little girl? She was a tricky one to catch, I'll give her that."

The Careers forget them almost completely, clearly seeing Eleven as a larger threat, and Gale takes the opportunity to bury his knife in the District Four boy's back.

Cannon. Water sprays everywhere. Cannon. Cannon.

Thresh looks up at them, blood running from a gash slanting across his forehead. And then they see the spear digging into his stomach. The water is dark scarlet and not blue-green, and she can't seem to swallow properly.

Gale drops the last piece of District Eleven's bread. Thresh wipes his mouth and eats it with relish, like he isn't dying.

His eyes close halfway. Their second knife is wrenched out of her limp fingers and Gale says to her roughly, "Don't look."

All she hears is an intake of breath, a soft splash, and then the last cannon. No hovercraft comes to take away the five bodies.

There should be trumpets. Madge remembers twelve Hunger Games, and there were always trumpets at the end, before the victor was announced. But all they get is Claudius Templesmith, who informs them that closer examination of the rules states there can only be one victor.

They look at each other with tired eyes.

She looks down, and Gale understands. He reaches for her hand, and they fall.

The water hurts.

It's so dark and there's _bodies_ and she can't feel the ground and she can't swim and neither can he—

Then there's a faint voice, far away, and trumpets, louder than they sound on her television at home. She chokes up water and he wraps his arms around her and digs his fingers into her back and doesn't let go.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce the _victors _of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games…"

* * *

><p>It's been a week since their Hunger Games, which is longer than they lasted. Madge thinks the train is moving too fast; she's honestly dreading going home.<p>

Haymitch takes her aside roughly after lunch. "I'm going to give you some good advice, all right?"

"Do I have a choice?" she asks dryly.

He ignores her. "I'm sure you noticed the president's reaction to your victory. You beat the system, and the Capitol doesn't appreciate it. The Districts could rebel, and it would be the Dark Days all over again."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"For the rebels, yes," Haymitch admits. "But you don't understand. You can't win, not against the Capitol. You'll lose everything, while the rebels are celebrating their defeat of corruption only to fall into the same holes a hundred years from now."

She sighs. "Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Because as much as I don't like the both of you, I know what it's like to lose everything. You and the boy are already more than convincing. Wait for another pair of fools to start this war. If you're anything like your aunt, you'll know I'm right."

That's when Madge wrenches her arm from his grip and walks away to find Gale. For the first time since they boarded the train.

She finds him in the lounge, watching reruns of their post-Games interviews with glazed over eyes.

"I need to talk to you."

He listens attentively to everything, and when she's finished, there's a gleam in his eyes that makes her nervous. "Don't you see, Madge? This _is_ a good thing. We can get rid of the Hunger Games. We've got to rebel."

The passion in his voice startles her. Madge looks away.

"My mother's told me stories about Haymitch. Her sister was in his Games. And he did something to make the Capitol angry, and his family was killed for it. The same thing could happen to my parents, and your whole family! It's hopeless."

"But what if next year, Rory's reaped? Vick in a few more years? Posy in ten?"

She swallows. "We can make a deal with the president. We don't further the rebellion and none of them get chosen."

Gale interrupts, "It's not just about my family. They might not get reaped, but another girl and another boy will, every year, in every district. You volunteered for Prim. Why?"

It's rhetorical and she hates the fact.

"I never killed anyone," she says. "In the arena. I don't want anyone to die because of me."

He says, "That's impossible."

As gratefully as he can manage, because she's on his side and basically always was.

They step off the train and into a celebration of their homecoming. He can't quite picture what the celebration of the end of the Hunger Games will look like, but he imagines it'll be difficult for it to be more cheerful than this.

Madge hugs her father and sees Posy clinging to Gale and receives a kiss on the cheek from Prim and knows she's made the right choice.

Her mother surprises her by being in the kitchen, and the air smells sweet. She reveals a beautiful egg-yolk-yellow cake and says, _I've missed you_. Madge helps her smear on the cream-frosting and organize the strawberries, and it feels nice.

Three slices are gone when she knocks on his door.

Haymitch opens it with a weak scowl but lets her in and compliments the cake too generously and too often. Gale stops by for a piece and to throw a disgusted look at the state of the house.

They all insist they hate each other, but they're all liars anyway, and this might be the celebration she likes the most.


End file.
